


i wouldn't leave you if you let me

by chocobos



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mild Hurt/Comfort, useless bisexuals in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 06:52:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4469474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocobos/pseuds/chocobos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a very <i>attractive</i>, very angry looking man currently on the ground underneath Hawke’s dog.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i wouldn't leave you if you let me

**Author's Note:**

> another fic, eh?
> 
> this was inspired by a thought i had that modern day fenhawke would probably totally meet because hawke's loser dog ran fenris over... and this happened. i am so sorry. 
> 
> the hurt/comfort warning is for a small cut, but i figured i'd warn you guys anyway. also, pretend elfroot is kind of like peroxide, okay. they started mass producing it...sometime.
> 
> this fic also fought me every step of the way, which i did not appreciate. it's nowhere near where i want it to be, but oh well, have it anyway!!
> 
> alSO this is set in that same universe of modern day!thedas i've been using, so elves/dwarves/humans/qunari all exist peacefully, okay. let's pretend that's a thing that can actually happen. creative license, i love you.

There’s a very attractive, very angry looking man currently on the ground underneath Hawke’s dog.

Hawke takes a few moments to stare at him. It’s early enough in the morning that this could all just be a pre-coffee induced hallucination, so there’s a definite chance that his dog isn't actually trying to eat the face off of some random handsome stranger. He’s had dreams like this before, only usually he’s woken up by now, and said attractive angry man is still glaring daggers at him, so the thought immediately dies in his head.

Well, shit.

Totally not a dream, then.

“Oh, _Maker_.” Hawke hisses, and then reaches out to firmly grasp at Kirkwall’s collar. “Oh, shit. I’m so sorry. Kirkwall, get off. _Now_.”

Kirkwall, being the rebellious, curious mutt that he is, makes a truly pitiful whimpering noise and tries to bury himself even further into the stranger’s neck. Hawke sees his dog’s life go suddenly, painfully short within moments, so he does what any respectable dog owner would do and yanks him back.

“Shit,” Hawke repeats, once Kirkwall is finally off of him.

The guy is dressed in a slouchy black sweater that keeps falling off of his (tattooed) shoulders, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. There’s a fork of a tattoo licking over his chin, ending just below his lips, and Hawke is sure, _sure_ once those moss green eyes meet Hawke’s own, he’s never seen anyone so damn pretty before. The tips of his pointed ears -- _elf_ , his mind helpfully supplies -- are poking out of the sides of his silky white hair. That’s fucking adorable. Hawke’s sure he’s never seen anything more adorable before.

He has to make an effort not to stare. The tattoos are thick, white ink, curling up from the tips of his fingers to his chin. Hawke can’t help but wonder how far down they go, if they expand around kneecaps, down to the heels of his feet. If they crawl up the back of his neck to loop around the crown of his skull.

If Hawke is honest with himself, he's never overly been into tattoos or anything; he doesn't even have an opinion on them other than a vague sense of admiration, but this man's tattoos are quite lovely. Hawke only realizes he's staring once Kirkwall whimpers next to him again, pulling against Hawke's grip to try and get at the stranger, who, yes, is still on the ground. 

The back of his head is already throbbing from his mother’s backhand at his lack of tact.

“Are you okay?” Hawke asks. “Please don’t sue me.”

The guy is still looking at him. He hasn't said anything, which is worrying, but maybe he just isn't the talkative sort -- Hawke, on the other hand, has been talking since he popped out of the womb, and hasn't stopped since. He tries not to take it so personally. He wouldn't be exactly talkative either if some random dog suddenly ran him over out of nowhere. Hawke lets his eyes roam over the elf's form, checking for the extent of damage. He can see a trickle of blood roll down his throat, and all he can think about is this guy rallying against him to try and make him get rid of his dog. That's the last thing in all of Thedas he wants to happen, here, really. 

(The thing he wants to happen the _most_  may or may not involve copious amounts of necking like teenagers whenever possible, so he can sink his fingers into that silky white hair of his and see if it's as soft as it looks.

Hawke seriously hopes that it is.

...but, that's not important. Not right now, at least.)

He's still on the floor. If Isabela were here -- and Hawke is suddenly and extremely grateful he declined Isabela's offer to hang out this morning -- she would have punched him already for being so rude, and in the same motion would've helped Attractive Guy up already. While probably trying to ask him for his phone number, but that's neither here nor there. The point is, Hawke is kind of being an asshole right now.

Hawke is ashamed of himself, to the point that he doesn’t even stop himself from blurting, “You’re bleeding.”

“What?” Attractive Guy asks. His eyes haven't left Hawke since he was attacked, which makes him wonder if there’s food in his beard again.

He physically has to stop himself from checking, and gestures vaguely to the guy’s face, which definitely does _not_ have any food on it. “You, uh. You’re bleeding.”

Attractive Guy blinks. “Oh.”

Hawke waits a few seconds, before he offers him a hand. Surely the ground is just as uncomfortable as it looks. He should've done this sooner, but he was distracted. Hawke's sure admitting he was too busy admiring the guy's prettiness to help him off the ground would not be appreciated here. Attractive Guy looks at it for a few seconds, dubious, like he's afraid Hawke might attack him like Kirkwall did. While it is tempting -- Hawke isn't going to lie, now now; he's very,  _very_ attractive -- he does actually have more self control than his dog, believe it or not, Varric. 

“I don’t bite,” Hawke says, amused and bites down on the lecherous comment that’s currently struggling to get out of his throat. He thinks he should wait to flirt with Attractive Guy until after he’s sure he’s not about to get sued. That’s probably the most polite way to go about it, he thinks.

Attractive Guy raises an eyebrow. His eyebrows are dark, almost black, and it’s such a stark contrast with his silvery white hair that Hawke finds himself blinking at him for a few seconds, unattractively. “Your dog does.”

Hawke tries not to panic. He wants that down on official record, he tries really fucking hard not to panic. But, Hawkes are natural born panickers when it comes down to it (his mom never stops fretting about harvest season, even though they haven't been back to Lothering since Carver and Bethany were children). He panics about everything; what to wear to work, if the evening traffic is going to make him late to family dinner, if his DVR is going to record something this time or if it'll glitch out again,  _everything_. This is a situation to panic about. For sure. 

His inner turmoil must be written all over his pathetic and sweaty bearded face, because the guy lets out a warm chuckle, pushing himself up to his feet in one fluid motion. Hawke just lets his hand hang there for a second, before he realizes how weird it is to still have his hand out when the guy, coolly and collectively, rejected his help. He lets it fall limply at his side, and tries not to dwell on the cold stab of rejection that runs through him.

“It’s alright,” Attractive Guy says, and for a moment, a split second, Hawke believes him. “He didn’t hurt me.”

“You’re bleeding,” Hawke points out, again. He should stop doing that. He’s not exactly driving home the whole ‘must not get sued by attractive random strangers’ bit he’s so heavily in favor of. It’s just that he can’t control his mouth. “I swear, he’s not a mean dog. He just gets excited.”

“I know,” Attractive Guy intones, and _wow_ , okay. Hawke could listen to him talk for hours and he still wouldn't have his accent figured out. It's husky and warm, settling over him like a cloak. Hawke kind of wants to cry a little, honestly. Kirkwall would just happen to pick the elf with the ridiculously amazing voice to topple over. That's just his luck. "I got that when he spent two minutes trying to lick his way into my skull."  

Oh. 

Oh, Maker. Hawke's going to lose his dog. That's something that's going to happen here. He's going to lose his dog, and it'll all be because Kirkwall is a glutton for attention. And if by some miracle he doesn't lose his dog, then he's going to buy that leash for him that Isabela keeps insisting that he buys and he's never going to let something like this happen again. 

“I am so--”

“It’s okay,” Attractive Guy sounds amused, now, at least. “I am not going to sue you.”

Hawke breathes out a breath he didn't even know he was holding. "At least let me clean you up," He blurts. He...hadn't meant to say that outloud. Now that it's out there, though, and since Hawke's already made enough of a fool of himself it can't possibly get worse, so he adds on, "To say sorry for my dog attacking you. With love, that is."

The cut on his neck is still bleeding, though it isn't very deep, nor is it particularly long. Hawke still feels like shit, though, especially when he notices that it cuts into one of the lines of white ink on his neck. That isn't going to look weird when it heals, will it? Hawke wishes he had more of an extensive knowledge on tattoos, other than that they look cool and are apparently extremely painful.

Attractive Guy's gaze hasn't left his face. Hawke thinks he should've introduced himself  _before_ he invited him back to his place. He's pretty sure he's seen at least four different horror movies start out like this, only Hawke definitely isn't intimidating enough to pull it off. His friends joke that a guy who spends his free time volunteering at an animal shelter couldn't be terrifying if he tried. Which is true, Hawke doesn't have an intimidating bone in his body. But, it would be cool. To be at least a little bit intimidating. 

"I'm Hawke," He introduces, after he's spent enough time lost in his own thoughts that he's surprised he hasn't made a run for it yet. His hand's twitching at his side to offer to him, but he refrains, just barely. For some reason, Attractive Guy doesn't seem so keen on unnecessary phsyical contact, and Hawke can respect that. Even if he does want to know if his hands are soft or calloused, warm or cold. "That's Kirkwall. The dog, I mean."

His eyebrows quirk. Hawke tries not to find the little ripple between them adorable. "Kirkwall?"

“Uh,” Hawke licks his lips. “Yeah.”

He looks amused rather than offended, which Hawke is eternally grateful for. "You named your dog after the ancient city that fell?"

Hawke flushes. Nobody likes to remember ‘The City of Chains.’

“Yeah,” Hawke starts, “My family had strong ties. Really strong ties, actually.”

"Hmmm," Attractive Guy hums. Hawke is just grateful he hasn't been punched in the face, yet. Either for his dog attacking him or because Hawke is still hovering like a lovesick loser. They're small victories, but Hawke's learned to take what he can get. "I'm Fenris."

_Fenris._

“Fenris?”

“Yes.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Fenris,” Hawke replies. “I wish it were under better circumstances.”

That gets him a laugh coated in smooth whiskey. Hawke’s just come to the conclusion that absolutely everything about Fenris is going to put him in a state. Not that he’s exactly complaining, or anything. It’s just that his heart hasn’t had this much exercise in months, and he’s starting to feel a little lightheaded.

“It’s okay,” Fenris assures him. “You don’t really need to--”

“Please,” Hawke repeats. He wonders idly if it’s as creepy as it sounds to almost beg an attractive man to let Hawke patch him up after his dog attacked him. Probably. This is in the realm of creepy, for sure. When he tells Varric about this, inevitably -- Hawke will tell him, or Varric will find out as he always does, from his multitude of creepy, underground contacts -- he might just put this in one of those murder mystery novels he likes to write so much. “Let me patch you up. Or wash your cut, at least. I don’t want it to get infected.”

Fenris’s eyebrows shoot up again. “Is your dog not clean?”

Is it rude or is it considered a tension breaker to joke about your dog’s cleanliness? “Nope,” Hawke blurts. “I’ve never cleaned him once. He’s a very, very dirty dog.”

Fenris smirks at him. Hawke is unsurprisingly bad at this. Fenris hasn't made an excuse to leave, yet, so maybe he's not as bad as he thought.

“Hmmm.”

“My dog is cleaned regularly,” Hawke assures him. “He tackled you kind of hard.”

“I can handle it.” Fenris looks thoughtful for a second, like he’s deciding something. “Okay.”

Hawke wasn’t expecting this. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

He’s extremely proud of himself for not fistpumping the air repeatedly.

(It is, though, a struggle.)

 

 

\---

 

Hawke's apartment is as cluttered and messy as it was when he left it. This is one of those things he should've thought about before bringing back an attractive man to his apartment, surely. Though, Hawke's never really been known for his ability to think his random bouts of impulsivity through.

Varric and Isabela, and sometimes even Anders, keep him on a leash because of this. It's no secret that if Hawke is without supervision for too long, he'll inevitably be solely responsible for the downfall of Thedas, and that's just not the kind of pressure he can handle. 

Kirkwall bounds through the front door almost as soon as it’s open, which leaves both Fenris and Hawke to awkwardly shuffle in after him. He makes sure Kirkwall has enough water before he turns back to Fenris, who, currently, is glaring at the massive pile of books in a heap around Hawke’s loveseat like he’s never seen anything more horrifying. Hawke doesn’t exactly blame him.

It’s a big pile.

“Uh,” Hawke begins. “Sorry about the mess.”

Fenris raises an eyebrow. Hawke will never get over how perfectly sculpted and dark they are. Admittedly, he’s never noticed eyebrows before, but Fenris’s are indeed striking. “This is quite the mess.”

“Yeah,” Hawke says. “I’m a professor at Thedas University. Sometimes things just… get away from me.”

“A professor?”

Hawke nods, before gesturing with his head to the door right off a short hallway. “Yeah. A professor.”

Luckily, when Hawke starts walking towards the guest bathroom, Fenris follows after him, a soft cadence of step that makes him realize  _just_ how great the size difference between them is. Hawke couldn't be small if he tried (and he has tried, on several different, embarrassing occasions, much to the greater amusement of his friends) he's always been too tall, has taken up too much space for that. Fenris, though, is tiny. So tiny that if he stands straight, he still barely reaches Hawke's shoulder. 

It’s very cute. Hawke doesn’t know why that’s so cute. Why is it so cute?

“What subject do you teach?”

Hawke hums thoughtfully, reaching into the cabinets underneath the sink for the first aid kit he stashed there a few years back. “Ancient History.”

Fenris snorts. Hawke likes the sound of his snort, he decides. “I’m not sure if I should even be surprised.”

“I think,” Hawke says, conversationally, trying not to smile as he puts the first aid kit on the counter. Fenris eyes it dubiously, but Hawke shoulders on, taking out the Elfroot Salve to clean the cut, and throwing some bandages on the counter for good measure. “The whole Kirkwall thing made it pretty obvious.”

“Perhaps,” Fenris indulges, mouth twitching.

“I figured,” Hawke laughs, and then pats the toilet seat cover. He hopes it doesn’t look as awkward as he feels. “Sit.”

Fenris doesn’t look too amused at this, not at all, but he does sit down on the toilet seat with little to no visual coddling, so Hawke isn’t offended by it. He doesn’t know how to go about this, now that he thinks about it. Having a stranger but their fingers on you, especially somewhere as intimate as the face and neck isn’t an enjoyable experience, he knows that from experience. But, Hawke cares more about making sure Fenris’s cut doesn’t get infected by his overzealous dog than any residual awkwardness from hand-to-face touching for a few minutes.

Even still, Hawke can’t quite help it when he asks, “Is this okay? I’m not going to make you uncomfortable am I?”

Fenris’s eyes meet his in something that looks a lot like surprise, and his face softens. “You could not force me into something I don’t want to do. Believe me.”

Hawke doesn’t doubt it. There’s strength wired in Fenris’s lithe form, that much is obvious. “Okay. Good.”

He rips off some of the paper towel that he has in the kit, and runs it under warm water. He can feel Fenris’s eyes on his back like a brand, and Hawke tries not to sweat under his gaze like the pathetic loser he is.

“Tilt your head up for me.”

The look Fenris levels at his back is scathing. “This isn’t necessary.” He looks like he’s very much reconsidering whether or not he wants to be here. The sight makes Hawke chuckle, punching out of his throat before he can think to stop it.

“Humor me,” Hawke says, and absolutely does _not_ feel satisfaction when Fenris rolls his eyes in defeat.

“Fine,” Fenris says, eyes bright with something Hawke can’t name. “If you must.”

“Oh,” Hawke says. “I must.” He gently starts swiping at the cut on Fenris’s neck with the paper towel, tilting the other man’s head up to allow a better angle. “I’m not going to have your possible infection hanging over my head.”

Hawke feels more than hears Fenris’s answering snort. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’ve heard worse,” Hawke grins, and once he’s sure he’s gotten most of the dirt out, he grabs for the other half of the paper towel to pour some salve on it. You can never be too careful, truly. He would never forgive himself if on the off chance the cut, somehow, did get infected.

“This might sting a bit,” He warns.

Fenris’s mouth is twitching again, like he thinks Hawke thinking something like this is painful is amusing to him. Hawke wonders what it’ll take to get a real smile out of him. He quickly files that thought away for a time where he isn’t so close to Fenris’s face, though. Surely, in some realm, it’s considered rude. This close he can see the faint splattering of freckles over Fenris’s nose and cheeks, can see the speckles of yellow and lighter greens that run through his moss green eyes. Hawke couldn’t stop staring if he wanted to.

After a few more seconds of creepy gazing, he remembers he’s this close to Fenris for a reason other than embarrassing himself, the paper towel in his hand suddenly feeling a whole lot heavier than it should. Hawke’s sure he’s blushing as he reaches forward to lightly dab at the scratch across Fenris’s throat. The elf makes a hissing noise, despite his earlier assurances and Hawke tries not to feel guilty about it.

(He fails.)

“Sorry,” Hawke whispers, not just apologizing for the Elfroot.

Unblinking, curious eyes meet his. “Do you ever stop apologizing?”

He snorts. “Any of my friends would tell you no.”

“Unsurprising,” Fenris tells him, and then looks down at the bandages scattered across Hawke’s countertop in disdain. When the other man’s eyes meet his, there’s a reluctance there that Hawke has to try very hard not to laugh at. “I don’t need bandages.”

“Consider it extra protection,” says Hawke. He just really wants to see Fenris in a Batman bandaid. He doesn’t know why, but he can’t get the thought out of his head.

Fenris is still looking at the bandaid in something akin to outright horror, but it only takes a few seconds of Hawke waggling his eyebrows at him before he eventually gives in with a grunt, exposing the long line of his throat again. Hawke tries -- he wants this on official record, alright -- he tries  _so_ damn hard not to let his eyes linger, but Fenris's throat is so long, and the tattoos that cover the base of his neck wrap around it like a cage. Hawke has never felt like this over someone's neck before.

It's pathetic.

After he’s pulled himself together, he throws the now partly pink paper towel into the trashcan. Hawke grabs one of the aforementioned Batman bandages from his stash that he only keeps in there for his nephew, and tries not to look too gleeful when he turns back to Fenris.

He knows that as soon as Fenris is out of Hawke's sight he'll probably rip the bandaid right off, but that isn't important to Hawke. The fact that he's letting him put it on in the first place is what matters to him, really. That has to mean something, right?

He's not even trying to hide how pleased he is anymore. He unwraps it carefully, sticking it right over the scratch on Fenris's neck. It looks just about as hilarious as Hawke suspected, and it takes all of his self control and then some not to snap a picture of it. Fenris wouldn't like that. He should wait until Fenris's ego is fully recovered from getting attacked by Hawke's dog to sneak pictures, he thinks. 

“There you go,” Hawke says.

“Thank you,” Fenris tells him, a small smile playing at his mouth. Hawke wants to trace it. “You didn’t have to do this.”

Hawke shrugs. “Infections are a very serious thing, Fenris.”

Fenris rolls his eyes so hard it looks like it hurts.

“It’ll be healed over by tomorrow.”

“Still,” Hawke insists, knowing Fenris is exaggerating. “The claw of a dog, even one as clean as Kirkwall, is a cesspool of bacteria.”

The elf snorts, looking at Hawke in disbelief. Hawke thinks finding a snort attractive should probably tell him he’s already in too deep but he finds it hard to care when Fenris is looking at him like that.

“Uh huh,” Fenris grunts. “I should go.”

Hawke only very nearly stops himself from making a noise of disapproval. “Yeah, okay.”

Fenris smiles at him again. He really needs to stop doing that, Hawke has no idea how much more of it he can take.  “Thank you.”

Hawke starts putting the extra bandages back in the kit, sticking it under the sink again. “You’re welcome.”

Fenris nods, once, twice, pushing off the toilet seat. He’s halfway to the door before Hawke clears his throat.

Hawke doesn’t know what makes him do it, maybe it’s the way that Fenris keeps glancing at him out of the corner of his eye like he just can’t help himself, or maybe it’s the way the air around them has gone heavy, and Hawke thinks he might stop breathing if he doesn’t do something about it.

“Fenris.” Hawke says. The other man pauses, head cocked slightly in curiosity.

“Hmm.”

“We should,” Hawke grunts, not sure how to finish. Is this where he asks Fenris out? Is that considered bad etiquette? If this were a romantic comedy, he’d magically run into Fenris somewhere, probably in a cozy looking secondhand bookstore or something equally as idyllic, but the Free Marches is a huge place, and he's not likely to run into the same person twice without a little help. “Would you like to get coffee with me? Uh, sometime. Maybe.”

Hawke has been staring at a place a few centimeters above Fenris’s shoulders for the last few minutes, but when Fenris makes a noise in his throat, he chances meeting the elf’s eyes.

Fenris is smirking at him, eyes light and dancing. “For coffee.”

“Yeah,” Hawke nods. “I don’t want to make this sound any worse than it already sounds, but I enjoyed...today.”

“You enjoyed me getting attacked by your dog?” Another perfectly sculpted eyebrow raise. Hawke’s impressed.

“Uh. Every part but that?”

Fenris snorts. “Hmmmm.” He’s quiet for a long moment. Hawke is almost completely positive that Fenris is going to decline, and he tries not to let the disappointment settle on his face, though he’s never been particularly great at hiding his emotions, anyway. “Alright, Hawke. Let's get coffee.”

Hawke blinks. “Really?” He asks, voice, miraculously even.

“I do like coffee,” Fenris says. Hawke’s answering grin is blinding.

 

 

\---

 

 

Fenris doesn't come clean until almost a year into their relationship.

Hawke’s been laying in the same position in their bed for the last four days, hasn’t been able to move a single muscle unless it’s to hurry into the bathroom for a few seconds before he has to crawl back to bed. Hawke hasn’t been this sick since he was a small child, and he remembers now how much he hated it.

Fenris has been equal parts concerned and disgusted. He’s run to the local _Bodahn’s_ countless times for cough drops, dietary supplements, and one particularly memorable trip that included eight boxes of Puffs and a Harlequin romance novel. Hawke would probably be sunken into his couch by now, in days old clothing, barely scraping by on what little food he has in his pantry if it weren’t for Fenris.

He tells Fenris as much, and the elf smiles at him. “It’s no trouble, Hawke.”

Hawke shrugs, sinking back into the pillows they dragged from their bed to the couch. Some random Sci Fi movie is playing, one that Fenris has seen dozens of times. It’s hopelessly endearing, how much of a nerd his boyfriend is. “I’ll just have to pay you back the favor when you get sick.”

He’s met with silence.

“Fenris?”

Fenris clears his throat, looking inappropriately amused and guilty. When they had first met, Hawke thought Fenris rarely smiled, but that wasn’t the case. Fenris smiles all of the time now that he doesn’t feel the need to hide it.

“Elves don’t get sick.”

Hawke blinks. Surely they would’ve gone over this in health class. There were elves all throughout his schooling. “What.”

“We don’t get sick,” Fenris repeats, and yeah, he’s definitely smiling now. “Nor do we get infections.”

Hawke narrows his eyes at him. He can’t help but think about when they first met, when Fenris sat there stoically on his toilet and let Hawke fuss over him for ten minutes.  “Then why did you let me clean you up like that?” Hawke asks. “When Kirkwall first attacked you.”

The other man levels him with a look, the one Hawke only gets when he’s being especially dense about something. “I wonder.”

Hawke sighs, hiding his answering smile in Fenris’s shoulder. Even though it's been almost a year, he never tires of hearing about how Fenris feels about him, especially when they first met.

“Well.” He huffs, trying not to feel too put out. “I get sick at least twice a year, so I’ll get sick enough for the both of us.”

Fenris groans in defeat, sounding none too pleased, and Hawke can’t help but laugh.

(He laughs for so long, and so loud that Fenris throws a pillow at his face.

Fenris apologizes for it later by making him some more soup.

Hawke isn’t too upset about it.) 

**Author's Note:**

> fun factz:
> 
> \+ in this fic think of the free marches as like... new england or something. there are different states and monopolies and such, but referring to them as the "free marches" never really died. cool  
> \+ hawke would totally name his dog kirkwall okay, he's that much of a nerd  
> \+ i really like the idea of professor hawke! he'd be the cool professor who is really nerdy but tells the best dad jokes so all of his students love him.  
> \+ i don't think it's ever been ~confirmed~ or w/e that elves have accelerated healing and aren't prone to infections, but i quite like the idea. so, yeah. that's not based in any canon, just in my own head.  
> \+ shout out to halsey for the rad title, thx ur music is awesome
> 
> feel free to follow me on tumblr (@asexualfenris) or just talk to me about these two dork babies!!


End file.
